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I have had people stop me and comment on my Trojan Records tee shirt
and Old Grey Whistle Test tee shirt on numerous occasions. I normally engage them but now
I might tell them to fuck off.
Either that or I might write a magazine article complaining about them.

I think that when we wear a t-shirt that advertises our musical tastes, we’re kind of hoping it’ll attract a fellow fan and result in a friendly little chat about the artist.

This is entirely different to a stranger telling you to cheer up, or that you have nice tits, or in a memorable case from my teens, “Wrap those ******* trousers around my face”. If he’d have said “Ace G’n’R t-shirt!” (and not been an old minger) he might have been in, or at least have got a response.

My daughter and I went to a horror film convention in Rotherham (insert own joke here) and, as you would imagine, there were loads of people dressed up as various horror film characters and the like. Some of them were brill. The lass dressed up as the nun from the Conjuring films was genuinely scary. But we had to stop one family to tell them how brill their idea was.

The mum was pushing a pram, with some balloons tied to the handle and a paper boat sat on the pram. A closer look revealed the pram to be dressed out like an American style grate/drain. And an even closer look revealed that they had dressed their baby as Pennywise, complete with the red wig and face make-up. Fantastic!

I should say that the baby looked perfectly happy and came to no harm.

I complimented a lady working in a coffee shop who was wearing A Hard Day’s Night T shirt, told her I was about to see Macca and she instantly worked out his age, I was impressed that the T shirt was not just a fashion statement.

My Radiophonic Workshop t-shirt has received a few favourable comments at gigs. Also my Kokomo shirts at jazz gigs.
My old Motörhead t-shirt got me dirty looks and even-ruder-than-usual treatment from the Ronnie Scott’s staff many years ago.

I was queuing up for the Kylie O2 gig, and there was a dashing young buck dressed up in sequinned cowboy gear, complete with stetson. I couldn’t help but tap him on the shoulder and tell him he looked fabulous (as of course did I, with thinning hair, thickening waist and a Kylie ‘Golden’ t-shirt on).

Edit: I saw this thread before the one below about a dodgy bloke passing a note, so I had no idea of the context. Speaking for myself, I dish out complements to people at work of every gender all the time – they are usually much better dressed than I am.

Something nice on trains? It took me years to realize what a kindness this was.

I was on the train from Edinburgh to Cambridge after the funeral of my grandfather. I was not, as you can imagine, doing well.

A young – but older than me – chap sat down and said “cheer up – it may never happen”. Quick as a flash, “it did and we just buried him”. HUGE sniffle, tears in eyes.

For the next hour or so, this guy, whose name I don’t know, spoke with me. It started with him asking me about leaving the army and translating his experience into civvy-world. It was a good conversation, and I remember feeling better about things as I stepped off the train, and boy I really helped that guy.

Years, and I mean YEARS later, I realized from nowhere that that was exactly what he had been engineering and driving the conversation.

Never knew his name. But I remain grateful for an altruistic kindness that helped me on a bad day.

Years ago, when I was working in Dubai I had an accident. I tripped over some wire on a building site and smashed my face in on a pile of bricks. I had stitches in my nose, lip and eyebrow. The resultant mess of swelling, bandages and scars made me look like the Elephant Man after an exceedingly lively night out. I had to do some shopping that day, as anyone who knows Dubai will be aware, this entails a trip to the nearest mega mall and the navigation of hordes of crowds. That day, I realised what it was like to have a visible deformity or disability. People stare. I mean, gawp, goggle and gape. Kids would look in squeamish fascination. I remember feeling utterly wretched as I meandered around the shops, with everyone looking at this sad monstrous looking creature. Finally, ended up in Borders where I had to get a few books. The chap at the checkout, was a neat, smily looking fellow, with a West African accent. As I paid, he leant over and asked quietly “I am sorry, I just have to ask – what happened to you?” I sighed, told him. “I fell. I fell over” He saw how dreadfully sad I was and murmured “I am so sorry. Every man must fall sometimes. It will be OK” That was it. He went back to ringing up the sale and putting the books in the bag. I don’t know why, but tears pricked my eyes and I came over all wobbly. What a lovely man. It made all the difference